


Good Care

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF Anthea (Sherlock), Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft can't believe Anthea would be so blatantly insubordinate. Part of him is glad she did, but the aftermath is more difficult on him than he had expected. When his body fails him, she's going to have to step in again to make sure he gets the care he needs.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lmirandas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lmirandas/gifts).



> For lmirandas, who gave this prompt expecting a short and sweet misunderstanding fic and ended up with this instead. Two weeks late, way over words and with a lot more agonising pain than was anticipated. Um, sorry about that...

“Oh for…” Mycroft muttered to himself as he spotted the man he was meeting. Moving swiftly, he stepped behind a pole to consider the disastrous chain of events that had led him here.

He’d arrived early at the rendezvous, of course – and been beaten to it. Mycroft was generally suspicious of new people – a burden of his chosen profession – but this time there was nothing in this man’s profile that flagged him as any kind of security issue; he had a respectable security clearance already. Anthea had smirked when she had assured Mycroft there would be no issues.

One look at the stranger’s face told Mycroft otherwise.

Anthea’s meddling was unforgivable. He’d regretted her egress into this the instant it happened.

The only reason she was even permitted the barest glimpse into this secret corner of his heart was that one unforgivable night. Wine with dinner, brandy afterwards, and paperwork that demanded to be finished before he departed the office. The reckless decision to continue drinking as he worked resulted in the sad figure of a drunk, lonely government official draped over his laptop, mooning over CCTV footage of Gregory Lestrade. It was thus she had found him at 2am, having decided he was done for the night.

Anthea was right, but not in the way she had originally meant. He was indiscrete, that much he remembered; with all his heart Mycroft wished that particular evening had been wiped from his memory. Unfortunately, it had remained, a reminder of his ridiculous weakness.

And to top off his mortification, she had taken matters into her own hands. While Anthea was generally the very personification of discretion, she had sat down the following day and informed him that his obsession with Lestrade was unhealthy. He needed to meet someone, to get Lestrade out of his system.

There was no uncertainty as to exactly what she had meant – the folder placed on his desk held the anonymous profile of a man she’d chosen for him. Someone who had already agreed to a short term, discrete arrangement, terms to be dictated entirely by Mycroft.

He had blustered and ordered her out, but she had left the man’s private contact details. Anonymous of course.

It had taken close to a week before Mycroft caved. Much as he told himself there was no need, he was _fine_ , the contact details remained in his desk, brushing his hand whenever he plugged in his mobile phone.

A late night weakness (had you not learned, he asked himself), and Mycroft had found himself blushing the whole time he was composing his first contact. How humiliating that he had stooped so low as to be set up by his assistant. She was only lucky to have maintained her excellent poker face when he had asked her to set up the private meeting under an assumed name. Such subterfuge, he thought to himself, extending now into my personal life.

And all in the name of forgetting Gregory Lestrade.

Thus Mycroft stood here, in the lobby of a very small, very discreet hotel; only he and Anthea knew he was here at all. The man he was meeting had agreed to one night, no real names, no personal details, no contact afterwards.

Mycroft had dressed carefully. Battle clothes would be an apt description, for they stood as the last line of defence between himself and the world. His favourite suit, a red pocket square to match the tiny pattern on his tie, understated silver cufflinks and pocket watch. Given the personal nature of the meeting, he had debated leaving his waistcoat off. He’d even gone so far as to dress without it, frowning at the expanse of exposed shirtfront. In the end, the waistcoat had made its appearance. Mycroft told himself it was so he had somewhere to hook his pocket watch, but he knew it was another layer, another comfortable familiarity against this new venture.

The man he was meeting would be dressed far more casually, but as that was usually the case, it did not bother Mycroft. He would be wearing a blue shirt, black jeans and drinking a Guinness, he’d said. Mycroft had not offered details of his own appearance; surely he could wait to appraise this man first then make a decision about whether to progress or flee like a guilty criminal.

Easing into the building, Mycroft made his way to the far side of the bar. Logic dictated the man would be positioned to watch the entrance, not the opposite side. He could observe from here and make his decision. While there were several men in the small bar – it was known for its cocktails, apparently – only one was wearing a blue shirt and black jeans. Only one drinking Guinness, wiping the froth self-consciously from the upper lip Mycroft had so often wanted to trace with his finger.

Mycroft’s heart stuttered before picking up its earlier rhythm, albeit at a much accelerated pace.

Gregory Lestrade.

Gregory Lestrade was sitting in the bar, waiting for Mycroft. Waiting for Mycroft to take him upstairs and shag him senseless, no less. Mycroft’s brain could barely begin to process the information.

There was no way it was a coincidence, Mycroft thought, as he stood behind a pole, considering his options. He wasn’t hiding, he told himself furiously; merely buying time to _think_. Anthea was to blame of course, and Mycroft’s mind entertained several possibilities for her when this was all over. He wondered if she had approached Gregory personally.

He wondered if Gregory knew he was waiting for Mycroft.

The thought made him go cold all over. If Gregory did know, it meant he had agreed to this meeting, and the assumption of certain activities afterwards, knowing it was Mycroft. Knowing he was agreeing to a one night stand. The very idea of Gregory harbouring an interest in Mycroft was absurd. There must be some other explanation.

He must be unaware. Must be.

But if he wasn’t, Anthea could be very persuasive; it would hardly stretch her to find something to offer the detective in return for a short term arrangement with Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had no idea what would entice Gregory to agree to this, but surely it would be significant. While he understood the concept of sex for advantage, the idea of someone consenting to any form of physical contact with him for any value of exchange was…startling.

“Mycroft?”

Gregory’s voice pulled him out of his panic-induced reverie.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was strained, but he attempted to smile politely. Good Lord, the man smelled divine. The blue shirt was exactly the right foil for his silver hair, Mycroft saw, his mind latching onto details in desperation.

“I didn’t know you drank here,” Gregory said.

“I don’t,” Mycroft said. His traitorous mouth added, “I’m meeting someone.”

“Really?” Gregory replied. “Me too.”

The smile was far too knowing to be an accident. Well, that was unexpected, Mycroft thought to himself. It was clear Gregory was enjoying himself, and that he thought Mycroft was playing some sort of ‘we don’t know each other’ game.

“You knew you would be meeting me?” Mycroft asked, hating that he needed to confirm it.

“Yes,” Gregory replied, a slight frown forming. “You sent your assistant. I did recognise her, Mycroft.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied automatically. Gregory had agreed to this knowing it was Mycroft? What on Earth…The idea was still too enormous for him to deal with right now. He packed it away for later examination.

“So can I assume you have a suite or something?” Gregory asked. “We could go for a private drink.”

“Certainly,” said Mycroft. He concentrated on calming his racing heart as they took the lift to his preferred suite on the third floor. It was fairly ineffectual, given the small space and distinctive scent of Gregory’s cologne, but the attempt did give him something on which to concentrate.

“Wow, this is nice,” Gregory said as they entered. The room was small, as all rooms in the hotel were. It wasn’t even a suite, Mycroft saw – just a bedroom with a minibar and an ensuite.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, turning to close the door. His fingers trembled as he pressed the door closed, and he breathed deeply. The snick of the lock was loud in the otherwise silent room. As he turned back, Mycroft realised Gregory was standing close. Far closer than usual. In the half light of the bedside lamps, he was beautiful, and Mycroft felt a swell of desire bloom low in his stomach.

“That drink?” Gregory murmured, eyes already watching Mycroft’s mouth. “Not interested, actually.”

Of course not, Mycroft thought. He wants to get this over with. Why spend a second longer in my company than necessary? It would only be awkward, when we are clearly here for one purpose.

“No?” Mycroft said instead.

Gregory’s eyes were intense. Was he playing a game? Perhaps he did this regularly, taking on a persona for a short term lover, amused by the smokescreen, enjoying flexing his psychological muscles. Mycroft couldn’t concentrate, the deep brown eyes growing larger in his vision as Gregory moved in. In the end he didn’t even reply to Mycroft’s question. The tiny smirk was all the warning Mycroft had that he was about to be kissed.

Lord have mercy, Mycroft thought to himself, as Gregory’s mouth descended on his.

 

_Nine days ago…_

Greg stared into the abyss that was his refrigerator. It was practically empty, of course – as if he ever had time to cook properly these days. Sighing, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and a ready meal from the freezer, opening the former while the latter rotated slowly in his microwave.

Today had been weird, even on the scale of someone who regularly interacted with the Holmes brothers. His lunch break, such as it was, had been commandeered by a mysterious black car. That in itself wasn’t odd, except that instead of containing one gorgeous redhead in a dark suit, it contained a gorgeous brunette in a dark suit.

Anthea had nothing on Mycroft, for Greg’s money. She was attractive enough, but the airhead routine did nothing for him. He preferred the intriguing depths of Mycroft, intelligence and a sharp wit combined in one tall slim package.

“Um, hi,” he’d said, sliding into the backseat. “Where’s Mycroft?”

“I have ten minutes,” Anthea told him, as though he’d booked this meeting and she was doing him a favour. Her tone was crisper than he was used to; the airhead routine was gone.

“Right,” Greg said. “Can we drive up to the chippy, then?”

As they drove, she spoke.

“I can see you are interested in Mr Holmes. Would you be willing to enter into a short term, discrete arrangement with him?”

Greg was glad they hadn’t stopped yet. He would have spat fish and chips all over the inside of the car.

“What?” he said, blinking at her.

“You heard me. My task is to find someone to fill a very specific, very personal role for Mr Holmes. It makes sense to find someone to whom he is attracted.”

“And you chose me?”

“It’s not a choice if you’re the only one, Detective Inspector.”

“Oh. Really? Right.” Greg said dazedly. “Hang on.”

He jumped out and picked up his order at the chippy before sliding back into the car.

“Well?” Anthea asked him.

“Well, I mean, yeah, of course I would.” Greg replied. He frowned a little. “Why did he send you?”

“Far less awkward for him if you said no to me,” Anthea said smoothly. “So can I pass on your willingness to Mr Holmes?”

“Um, yeah, sure.”

“Excellent. You will need to visit this doctor for a comprehensive health check tomorrow morning. The details are on this card. I will be in touch with the arrangements when Mr. Holmes makes his preference known.”

They pulled up at Greg’s office, and he stepped out automatically. “Um, okay, bye,” he said as the door closed. Blinking in the weak sunlight, only the card in his hand told him the last ten minutes had not been a dream.

Two pints at the pub after work, the possibility of a snog (and maybe more) with the cute blonde, but Greg had blown it off and come home instead. His mind was filled with pale skin and dark suits and a fair portion of what-the-hell-is-going-on.

Almost a week had passed and with no contact, Greg had started to wonder if Anthea’s visit had been some bizarre hazing ritual or something. Then one day, a message from a blocked number.

_I understand you would be amenable to meeting me. I propose one evening. Friday, 8pm, Hotel D’Rouge._

 

He stared at it for a long time. It wasn’t like he had Mycroft’s number anyway, but this certainly sounded like him. The ‘one evening’ was a bit disappointing, but it was better than nothing. Beggars certainly couldn’t be choosers at this point in his life, and the very idea of Mycroft, soft and pliant and willing was…enticing. A quick Google (Christ, it was a swanky place, but there was a bar in the lobby) and a mental riffle through his wardrobe, and Greg replied.

 

_Sure. I’ll wear a blue shirt, black jeans. Meet you in the bar. I’ll have a pint of Guinness._

 

If he wanted to play secret agents, fine. Greg could go along with that.

Arriving early was a given. Greg was tempted to refer to himself as ‘scoping the place out’, but that seemed like a bit much. Instead he sat in the bar with his Guinness, timing it so he’d be almost finished at the appointed time. That’d give him a little of the Dutch courage he was so sorely in need of.

Sure enough, Mycroft arrived fifteen minutes early. He was nervous, that much was evident. Greg sat at his table, watching him saunter casually around to the back of the bar. It would have been too obvious to sit watching the door; Greg figured Mycroft’d try and get a look first, maybe take Greg by surprise.

Now that he knew Mycroft was here, though, Greg felt a bit guilty, so he made a bit of a show of adjusting his chair, craning his neck for a better look at the door. There, now he was very visible. No way a trained observer like Mycroft would miss him. He grinned to himself. This was kind of fun. He wondered how into it Mycroft wanted to get…

Glancing around casually, Greg saw the redhead duck behind a pole.

Shit.

Was he backing out? Had he seen Greg and changed his mind, or chickened out, or worse, decided he didn’t fancy anything after all?

Greg stood up, draining off the rest of his pint before navigating his way around that very same pole.

“Mycroft?” he asked, the hesitance in his voice not entirely put on. The last thing he wanted to do was spook the man. And oh, Christ, the look in those eyes…Mycroft looked like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin. Mouth slightly open, eyes wide, guilty as sin.

Dimly, he heard the man say his name. Greg smiled, hearing it so close, knowing why they were both here. Secret agents, he reminded himself.

“I didn’t know you drank here,” Greg said, smiling a little, allowing the tease to show.

“I don’t,” Mycroft replied. Greg was confused for a moment – there was nothing in Mycroft that indicated he was amused by the circular game, or even understood that there _was_ a game. When he opened his mouth, adding, “I’m meeting someone,” Greg had the distinct impression he had not meant to say it.

Greg played along, allowing his slight smile to become a downright dirty smirk. Mycroft looked startled, which was not the reaction Greg was hoping to see.

It became apparent very quickly that Mycroft had been expecting an anonymous someone, rather than Greg. That assistant of his was a piece of work, Greg thought. Either she was a bitch trying to get back at her boss, which was a frankly stupid thing to do to Mycroft Holmes, or she was completely misguided.

Although she _had_ been right about Greg fancying Mycroft.

He couldn’t see Mycroft confiding that kind of information to anyone, but if she could see Greg’s attraction – and they’d barely met a handful of times – it would be child’s play to read Mycroft, with whom she had evidently formed a close working relationship. So what if she was right?

Either way, though, she hadn’t told Mycroft what was going on. So this all hinged on whether Mycroft was willing to go upstairs with Greg or not. Right now he looked like he might pass out, Greg thought, and this was hardly the place. Worst case scenario, they get upstairs, have a drink, and Greg pisses off back home.

End of story.

Suggesting a private drink had been a good choice. Mycroft had agreed, and the lift was a good chance to stand close. God, he smelled good, Greg thought. His own cologne was stronger than he realised, though, have to pull back on it a bit next time. He followed Mycroft out, taking the chance to admire the man’s confident gait as they moved through the quietly expensive hallway.

Once inside, the decadence of the room was clear. Greg had barely taken a step inside and he daren’t move again for fear of having to mortgage a kidney to pay for something inadvertently broken. As he looked around, wondering what the hell he was doing, the sound of the lock engaging made him turn.

Mycroft had shut the door, and was standing against it, looking at Greg with such longing it took Greg’s breath away. There was no misreading that expression. It shot straight to his groin, flaring the candle Greg had held for so long for this besuited man.

“That drink?” Greg murmured, as his eyes travelled down to lock on Mycroft’s mouth. Did he even realise he was licking his lips? It made Greg want that tongue, on his body, in his mouth…in his body. He bit back a shudder. “Not interested, actually.”

There was a flash of…something, but Greg was too focused on Mycroft’s mouth to pay his eyes much mind. Mycroft wanted him, and had clearly allowed himself just one night of indulgence. So they had one night together. One night to explore everything, then it would be over.

He’d had worse deals, Greg thought to himself, stepping forward. Just means you have to make every second count.

_I’ll take such good care of you._


	2. Chapter 2

“Sir?”

“Yes, Anthea.” The reply was tired, too tired even for an interrogatory inflection. Sleep had been elusive in the past three nights, and he suspected he would pay for it soon. Mycroft had lain in his bed for hours and stared at the ceiling, replying the events of the single most memorable night of his life. He would never tire of it, and him mind would not allow him to rest without one last look, one last recollection…

“Sir. Can I ask…” Anthea was hesitant, and rightly so. Her face had been expectant when he’d arrived at work directly from the hotel two days previous; he had given her his blandest look and asked for the overnight reports and a pot of coffee as soon as possible. No censure was needed; she would know that whatever had happened, or might in the future, it was categorically none of her business.

But he his work had been unacceptably poor in the hours since. He had missed a conference call and requested she reschedule meeting with two diplomats – practically unheard of unless he was dealing with a matter of significant urgency, which he was not. Anthea had done as he’d asked, of course, but the concern in her eyes had deepened with each pot of coffee, each weary pass of his hand over his eyes.

And now she was asking.

“I am fine.” Mycroft told her with all the certainty he could muster.

“Of course,” she murmured, closing the door softly as she left him alone in his office.

He stared after her for a moment then lowered his head slowly into his hands.

He was not fine. His suspicion had come to pass, and the devil had set up shop in his frontal lobe, waging war on his eyes from the inside out.

Mycroft pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, shuddering as the pressure relieved his migraine. It was temporary, and the pain would roar back as soon as he moved his hands, but the reprieve was blessed and he would take what he could get. The cascading courses of light were vaguely interesting but they couldn't distract him from the two dominant sensations coursing his body right now. 

One was pain. A throbbing, nausea inducing pain from behind his eyes. Red hot and unrelenting, it was the hallmark of his migraines, heralding days of weakness to come. Mycroft had endured torturers less adept at causing him pain.

The other was regret, sour and desperate in his stomach. This was less about his migraine, but it exacerbated it, making food and drink difficult to stomach, robbing him of strength. They twisted around each other, fighting for dominance as he tried to will them away. Neither would abate; Mycroft knew he had no choice but to retire home and implement his usual routine. 

“Weak,” he murmured to himself, the vibrations pulsing through his skull.

Breathing shallowly to avoid the rolling motion of deep breaths, Mycroft shifted one hand over, finding his call button by feel, pressing firmly once. He lacked the strength to retract his hand; when was it he had last eaten? Before that night, surely. Coffee and endless cups of tea had remained his only sustenance in the interminable hours since, and the lack of both milk and sugar left him without the energy required even for the simple task of drawing his hand to his body.

“Sir?” Anthea had re-entered the room, her footsteps noiseless on the plush carpet.

“Migraine,” Mycroft whispered, his face now resting on the arm pressed into his blotter. For all her meddling recently, right now Mycroft was incalculably grateful for Anthea. The single word, hoarsely whispered into his folded arm, was enough. She turned off his lights, leaving him at his desk; although the room was now empty, Mycroft knew she would be setting into motion the plans laid many years ago, when his migraines first became severe enough to prevent him from remaining at the office.

For now, he drifted, the pain hammering in his skull, reducing his world to the careful necessity of breathing, concentrating his focus on remaining as still as possible. He breathed through his mouth; the rush of air through his nose was like knives in his flesh.

There would be no avoiding the motion required to get home; that journey would be torture, of course, even with the medication that was coming. Now, though, the pain crested and troughed with his breathing, taking him with it as all other stimuli faded in comparison. The tease of slightest relief came with each exhalation, only to have the pain return in force as his lungs expanded.

Sensations that would be otherwise sharp were dulled; the vague sense of a hard surface below his arms, the beginnings of a stiff neck from the awkward position in which he lay. Nothing else mattered but the pain, and it was oddly cleansing to have his busy world condensed to one, pure, focal point. His eyes were as one, burning, throbbing as though on fire; it was all part of the same and would recede only with the medication prescribed by his doctor, kept in his home.

“Sir.”

Anthea’s voice was a whisper, and Mycroft felt her hand in his as she passed him the medication.

Fortunately, Mycroft’s brother had more…creative ways of finding relief.

Only Anthea knew of the bespoke narcotics Mycroft kept in her desk for these occasions; only she was trusted enough to bring him the white pills stamped with a goldfish. Sherlock’s little joke, Mycroft knew. He held his tongue on this matter, valuing his brother’s help in this matter far beyond petty squabbles. Now, for example, when cool fingers turned over his outstretched hand, Mycroft would have given Sherlock the world for the small pills pressed into his palm.

Mycroft summoned all his strength, gritting his teeth against the oncoming storm of agony in his head, and drew his hand to his mouth, pressing the pills between dry lips, extending his hand again. The cup was furnished with a straw; a small detail that allowed him water without turning his head. Anthea, once again demonstrating her thoughtfulness. Grateful, Mycroft returned the cup, the bitter pills already dissolving before he could summon the strength to swallow. The residue was gritty, and he fought to swallow again, ridding his mouth of the irritation.

Ten minutes, he knew – ten minutes for the warm wash of relief to wash over him. It was like a physical wave, moving slowing up the surface of his mind, washing away the pain like the tide removing footprints on a beach.

Until then, Mycroft sat still, waiting, knowing it would be sudden, the indrawn breath without the renewal of pain; disbelief for a few breaths, until it became real, the pain quantifiably less. It was then the wave would come, building on itself until the pain was gone, his eyes tender and warm without burning.

His mind would be fuzzy, slow as a babe in arms, and he would require more medication, fluids and rest in a dark room. Most people would take several days off work to recover. Mycroft would return late tomorrow or the day after, conceding only a few extra hours of sleep to the nuisance that was his body failing on him.

As the first easy breaths came to him, Mycroft welcomed the relief, relaxing as the pain finally faded. He felt slow, as he always did, and tired beyond the usual. Given his lack of sleep recently, that was to be expected. Much as he wanted to open his eyes, Mycroft knew from years of experience that the severity of his migraines was not to be underestimated. Rest, further medication and above all, darkness, were not optional, unless he desired a repeated performance within hours of resuming his duties. Anthea knew what he needed; all that was required of him was to sit and wait. Patience, a virtue he had long cultivated as though for this very purpose.

+++

The ride home was never comfortable, though every effort had been made to reduce his pain. Blacked out windows, a driver with instructions to balance time and a smooth ride, underground carparks with conveniently faulty lights. Few people other than himself were permitted access to his personal flat; Anthea was one, though she never entered further than the kitchen and office.

“Call if you need anything,” she whispered as she always did, ensuring he had his beeper before leaving, the crack of light under the door all that remained of the outside world. The beeper, a relic if ever there was one, was far simpler than his mobile phone; two buttons, two messages. One would summon Anthea to his flat. The other would have a medical team – and probably Anthea – within minutes. They were only to be used in emergencies, though the situation would have to be dire indeed for Mycroft to request help in such an undignified manner.   

Slowly, he moved through his flat, lightly touching furniture and doorjambs to orient himself. Blackout curtains, operated from the kitchen, were drawn, keeping the flat in almost perfect darkness. The spare pyjamas under his pillow were cool against his skin, and as always, he was grateful for his forethought in preparing what he would need in his bedside table. Water, further medication, and heavily tinted glasses were joined by his beeper.

He removed the wheatbag from under his pillow, settling it over his eyes. It was counterintuitive, but the gentle, firm press was soothing in this narcotic-induced respite. He knew it would be hours until he needed his prescribed medication, and right now sleep was all he desired. With any luck, the narcotics still taking the edge of his world would drag him down, and he could slumber alone, without the memories of Gregory Lestrade to torture him.

+++

The worst thing about waking in a darkened flat after having retired in the middle of the day was not knowing what time it was. Still fearful of the light (it pressed uncomfortably against even closed eyelids, Mycroft found, for days afterwards) he groped in the drawer for water and medication, which he choked down before returning to his pillow. The medication would make him sleep; he’d come as close to begging as he ever would, explaining the need for a sedative at times like these. The doctor had been reluctant but quieted eventually, to Mycroft’s relief. These were the rare times he listened to his body, and right now he needed more sleep, regardless of the state of the country.

There were no dreams in these hours; they were lost to the blackness that dragged him under.

Another slow waking, another disorienting moment in the dark. Mycroft lay still, trying to determine the time of his own accord. Probably morning, he thought cautiously, though there was no clue he could discern. If it was morning, that would mean at least ten hours sleep, possibly more; a veritable feast for his rest starved body. Certainly long enough that he could consider a shower, at least.

He sat up cautiously, wary of the changing blood pressure in his head. It took ten minutes before he was standing up, breathing carefully, monitoring the status of his discomfort with every breath. Yesterday, assuming it was yesterday, had been a bad one, but he appeared to be recovering a little. The intense pain was gone, at least, and he was left with the lingering weakness and deep heaviness that permeated his bones.

Used to the difficulties, Mycroft made his way to the bathroom, turning on the low lights under the cabinet. It was enough to see by, dim and indirect enough not to trigger a relapse.

He showered slowly, washing his body with care, breathing in the humid air, lavender and rosemary from his body wash somehow soothing his mind. The suds were soft as they slid down his body; it brought to mind other things moving across his skin – but Mycroft pushed the memory away. Too much, especially today.

He finished his ablutions as quickly as possible then stood in his dimly lit wardrobe in pants and socks, despairing at the choice to make. Was he, or was he not, intending to go into the office? If so, a suit would be appropriate. If however he was going to work from home, there was the option of slightly less formal attire.

Mycroft vacillated for several minutes, really just wanting someone else to make the decision for him. Finally, he decided to dress for the office. If he worked from home, no matter, but the ordeal of dressing himself twice was too much to bear. It took far longer than usual, as he moved slowly and carefully, holding onto furniture and wishing he’d eaten something recently.

When he was finally dressed, Mycroft forced himself to eat – toast and tea, all his protesting stomach would allow. Staring at the kitchen wall, he felt himself slipping back to that night once more. They had not eaten together, but he could imagine Gregory ordering tea and toast from room service at 3am, eating in bed and crumbs be damned, deliberately dropping jam on his skin…

No.

This would not do. He must concentrate on something. Something other than the worst mistake of his life.

Work. Work was the answer, and he was surely behind after a whole day off and such a sub-standard performance the day before. The idea filled him with…well, not joy, exactly, but he clung to it either way, needing something to hold onto.

Mycroft slipped a hand into his pocket and pressed the button that would summon Anthea. She would take him to work, and they would resume their lives, as free from Gregory Lestrade as they had been before his atrocious error of judgement with the butterscotch schnapps.


	3. Chapter 3

“It would be no inconvenience to train a new assistant. Continue on this path and I will have no other choice,” Mycroft told Anthea levelly.

“So be it,” she replied with equal composure. “But if you continue on your chosen path, you might not be here to train anyone.”

The door was closing quietly behind her before Mycroft could even process her words. It was the fitting end to a fractious day, he thought, wearily slumping into his chair. So many things he should have done differently.

He should not have thrown Gregory out. The man clearly wanted to talk about that evening, perhaps arrange another such liaison.

Greg wanting him again, but only for a single night. It was both what Mycroft craved and what he feared. The idea was agonizing, the dread at Greg’s potential words making Mycroft cold and dismissive.

He should not have threatened to fire Anthea.

Beyond all that, he should not have left the flat without taking another dose of his medication. His panicked exit, grasping at anything to take him away from the ongoing nightmare of seeing Gregory everywhere, had made him reckless once again. Once again, he would pay for his foolishness. The light, and the work, and the lack of medication, food and rest had done exactly what he knew it would.

Another migraine.

It was his own fault. He could not think of a method of forgetting the night with Gregory, and it followed him, flashing through his mind as he spoke to his colleagues, dogging his words when he dictated words directed at Le Salle, the French minister for Foreign Affairs. The sustained lack of sleep was still crippling him, despite his recent rest, and Mycroft did not know what to do about it. In any other situation, he would have found the man again, set up a repeat encounter, perhaps even a longer term, occasional arrangement. But this was Gregory Lestrade. He was not a rent boy, a man for hire to cater to Mycroft’s whims. It would not be fair to either of them to treat him as such.

Mycroft’s heart would not survive it.

Groaning, Mycroft crossed his arms on his desk, laying his head down once more. He wished for death to steal him away, to take this agony from his body. Even the eternal damnation of hell would be better than this, surely.

“Mycroft?”

The voice was quiet, but not quiet enough; the maelstrom was roaring through Mycroft’s head by now, and any stimulus was agonising. He recognised the voice but his ravaged mind could attach no importance to the deep smooth tones.

“Get Anthea,” he whispered. “Migraine.”

It was the worst pain Mycroft had ever felt. There was no slight ebb and flow, as he usually experienced; it was a relentless thudding, faster than his heart, vibrating his skull of its own accord. He had no concept of anything outside of his own body. Sound was roaring in his ears; touch was hot and hard or absent, nothing else; movement of any kind was agony, sending shafts of fire through his already protesting eyes and face.

Mycroft wondered if his brain would boil. At this point he would welcome the melting of his face, even the puncture of his eyeballs. He would do it himself if it would ease the excruciating pain.

To his alarm, Mycroft realised another part of his body was reacting to the pain. His stomach was roiling, protesting the bare swallows as he tried to keep himself from dribbling.

Please don’t let me vomit, he thought frantically. Surely my head would explode.

The pressure would kill him, he was sure, but worrying about it made it worse, so he focussed once more on his breathing. The world slowly fractured, and perhaps he did too, the pain pushing his taut flesh out, cracking him so it could escape, breaking his skull.

He welcomed the release.

NO!

Breathe.

In.

Out.

Pain. Swirling.

Wet? Was he crying? Might cool his eyes.

No. Hot.

Hot.

Everything hot.

Pain.

Pain.  
_Breathe_.

In.

Out.

_Breathe, Mycroft._

_He’s not responding._

Pain. Pain. Cracking. Breaking…

_See if he’ll take these._

No.

No. I’ll shatter.

Pain.

Movement. A thousand thousand needles.

Pain. Rolling, dragging, pushing.

_He won’t open his mouth._

Pain.

Was this dying?

He was dying.

Gregory…

“Gregory…”

_I’ve never seen him this bad._

_Did he say my name?_

_I’m calling an ambulance._

_Right._

Pain.

Pain.

“Gregory…”

_Mycroft. Breathe._

Pain.

I’m gone. Shattered.

_Breathe._

In.

Out.

Hot. Wet. Tears.

In.

Out.

_shhhhhhhhhmedicineshhhhhhhhhhhhhwonthurtabitshhhhhospitalshhhhhhhhh_

Cold in my arm.

Cold.

_This will help._

Ohhhh…….

Waves.

One giant obliterating wave.

Finally.

Relief.

Floating.

“Gregory…”

I’m gone…

_I’m going with him._

_Six hours earlier…_

It was the kind of morning that just feels different. Like you have to do something right now to change things because you can’t continue for a second longer.

Greg had reached the end of his rope. Mycroft hadn’t called, texted, showed up unannounced or in any other way impacted on Greg’s existence in four days. Since they’d left the hotel, in fact. He knew Mycroft was alive, courtesy of John, but there was no other indication of his continued existence. Even waiting shadily outside Mycroft’s office hadn’t done any good. Greg didn’t realise quite so many dark sedans with tinted windows had been parked in the underground garage. Mycroft could have been in any of them.

He’d been patient, made excuses in his head for every moment, every crime scene that came and went without the dryly amused expression on the tall, silent man’s face from afar. Greg had told himself the tallest tales he could manage, but in the end, it had been one thing that had tipped him over the edge.

Sitting in the pub, watching as John finished off a pint of Guinness, Greg couldn’t keep the image of himself and his own Guinness, all those nights ago, from his mind. The logical continuation of that was the rest of the night, which was somewhere between depressing, infuriating and arousing. His body was bloody confused, and Greg muttered some crappy apology to John before bailing on the surprised doctor.

He’d had a night’s bad sleep, mulling over his disgruntlement with less and less justification for why he hadn’t just gone to the bastards office and demanded an explanation. In the end, with only a few hours rest behind him, Greg had done just that. Blown off work for the morning and shown up at Mycroft’s office, demanding to be let in.

Damning himself and unable to change his path.

“I’m sorry, sir, I can’t confirm if a Mister Holmes works in this building,” the secretary-cum-gatekeeper had informed him.

“Well if you’re so unsure of your tenants perhaps I’ll get a few colleagues of mine down here with paperwork for a drugs bust. Probably take a few hours before Mycroft can get his arse into gear to smooth that one over, don’t you think?”

The threat was hot air, and Greg knew it; he was banking on Mycroft knowing the true motivation behind it. Hopefully the gatekeeper would have the good sense to at least tell Mycroft that Greg was here. He just wanted a conversion, nothing more. He’ resigned himself to the likelihood of this being the last time he ever saw Mycroft; this little stunt wouldn’t go down well on the best of days. He couldn’t stand by and do nothing, though, so like all desperate men he was clutching at straws.

Hopefully this one wouldn’t get him fired. Or deported.

The uniformed man stared at Greg as though trying to work out if he was serious or not. Finally, he placed one hand on the phone and pointed to the waiting area behind Greg. He only raised the receiver once Greg was too far away to overhear the few words he spoke. From the dissatisfaction on his face, Greg reckoned he was in.

He was right.

“Mr. Holmes is not available,” the gatekeeper told him. “If you wait over there, someone will escort you up at his convenience.”

“No problem,” Greg replied grimly. He could wait all day, if he needed to.

Hours later, a nameless lackey was dispatched to guide him up to Mycroft’s office. It was less an office building and more a private club, by Greg’s standards. Soft carpet and enough wood panelling to put the Titanic to shame, he thought. When the lackey stopped and knocked at a door, Greg swallowed hard. The knot in his stomach eased a little when Anthea admitted him to the outer office, closing the door behind him.

“Hi,” he said, unsure where they stood vis a vie personal conversation.

“On any other day, at any other time, you would be walking home,” she said without preamble.

“Right,” Greg nodded. He had no idea what that meant but it was surely better to agree with the woman who could (and might) throw him out before he had a chance to see Mycroft.

“Mr Holmes has been…uncharacteristically unsettled since your rendezvous,” Anthea said delicately.

Greg took a second to translate that. _He’s been unhappy too_. His heart leaped, and he took a second to breathe, to try and slow it again.

“Right.” This was a more cautious response. Clearly Anthea was walking a very thin line between loyalty to Mycroft and acting in what she believed was his best interests. Euphamisms were clearly the order of the day. “So…perhaps if I offer to…sit with him?” Greg ventured. “Perhaps some…tea would be a good idea.”

Anthea looked at him, the faintest edge of approval in her eyes. “I believe so.”

Greg nodded. “I’ve been…distracted, too,” he said, careful to speak in generalities. “Finding it hard to sleep, to be honest.”

“Excellent,” Anthea murmured. “Perhaps you can say something to convince Mr. Holmes to rest. I believe he has been facing the same issue lately.”

“Maybe it was catching,” Greg said, winking.

Not the best move, he acknowledged as she stared blankly at him before indicating the door behind her. The door to Mycroft’s office, if he was right.

“I will order tea and sandwiches,” Anthea said. “He should eat.”

Greg nodded once more, swallowing as he stepped across the deep carpet. He knocked once, paused, and entered.

Things more or less went downhill from there.

Mycroft had been surprised to see him, that much was clear. Greg’s heart dropped when the cold mask settled over Mycroft’s face, shutting Greg out. He knew he sounded hesitant, but barely five words in Mycroft dismissed him, much as you would any irritating junior officer.

Greg had left, dazed and confused by the short interview. Anthea looked up, a single eyebrow rising with his departure. He shrugged, knowing his face broadcast his bewilderment and probably pathetic sadness.

Neither spoke, and he closed the door quietly on his way out.

That was it, then. One night and over. Greg’s mind was in neutral as he walked to the tube station. He must had caught the right train and walked back home, even though he should be at work. His quick text to Sally as he’d waited for Mycroft would cover him, thank God.

Lying down didn’t make him feel better. Tempting though the Scotch was, he knew that wouldn’t help either.

Perhaps a sleep, he thought dejectedly. Wake up tomorrow, this will all be a nightmare.

He dozed, on the edge of dreaming for hours, images of his body and Mycroft’s entangled together taunting him as the true rest of deep sleep eluded him.

The ping of a text message came from far away. Greg’s subconscious tried to tempt him to stay here, where things were soft and easy.

A second message, then a third. Never a good sign, and the trained copper in him couldn’t ignore it.

His hand groped across the bed, finding the hard corner of his phone, drawing it to his bleary eyes.

Mycroft’s name swam into focus, and suddenly he was awake.

 

_You need to return. Mr. Holmes requires your assistance._

_Greg. Mycroft is not well. He needs you here._

_A car will be sent for you immediately._

 

Christ.

Greg jumped up, swooning a little at the sudden change in blood pressure. He scrubbed his hands over his face, wondering if he had time for a shower, or a cup of coffee before…

Nope. That knock at his door – in the middle of a weekday – could only be the driver. Phone, keys, wallet. Greg was out the door in ten seconds flat, Anthea’s text message swimming before his eyes, pushing his heart to thump faster in his chest.

He bypassed the gatekeeper, taking the stairs two at a time, practically skidding to a stop at Anthea’s desk. She nodded to him and indicated the door.

“He threatened to fire me,” she said. “He only does that when things are…difficult.”

Greg nodded back, swallowing hard. Why the hell had Anthea called him and not…anyone else? A friend? Sherlock, or even John?

A whisper of an answer curled up his spine, and he batted it away. There was no way he was the closest person in the world to Mycroft. They’d only shared one night, for heaven’s sake.

He grasped the door handle and let himself into Mycroft’s inner office.

Before he’d even really looked around, his attention zeroed in on Mycroft, drawn as though one magnet to another. Greg frowned. He didn’t know Mycroft that well, but surely sleeping at his desk was…unusual? A quick glance and Greg saw a sofa that looked a hell of a lot more comfortable than crashing on the desk. Maybe if he could get Mycroft to shift across, he could get some real rest…

As Greg approached, he had to suppress a smile. Mycroft looked like a small child, arms crossed on the desk. As his face came into view, Greg anticipated the softness of sleep on Mycroft’s usually closed features. He was wrong, though; Mycroft’s face was knotted with pain. Was he having a nightmare? Greg moved closer, and in the silent room a low whimpering was audible.

“Mycroft?” he whispered, wondering if he should even wake the man. Weren’t you supposed to let a nightmare run its course? Or was that sleepwalking?

As his brain followed the tangent, Mycroft spoke, sending alarm bells ringing in Greg’s head. Adrenalin coursed through him at the desperate whisper, hoarse and rasping.

“Get Anthea. Migraine.”

 _Migraine_. Of course – lack of sleep and food, along with the obvious stress. Mycroft was he poster boy for stress related migraine risk, if such a thing existed. Greg hesitated for a second, until Mycroft’s face twisted again, another whimper dragged from his throat.

Greg moved. Reversing his steps as quickly and quietly as he could, he opened the door again.

Anthea looked surprised, then alarmed at Greg’s expression.

“He’s having a migraine,” Greg said. He’d hoped Anthea would start doing something, some long standing plan for when this occurred. Her face froze, though, and he wondered if this was the first time. Surely not?

“Another one?” she said.

“Another one?” Greg repeated. “Why, when was the last one?”

“Yesterday,” she told him, striding out from around the desk. “He should still be at home, floating on enough meds to chill Sherlock out.”

“Fuck,” Greg muttered under his breath. He knew Mycroft pushed himself, but this sounded flat out dangerous. He followed Anthea back in without asking, his concern for Mycroft overriding the hesitance at moving around such private office space.

She stopped at his desk, and Greg stood beside her, anxious and uncertain – how serious was this? Judging from her face, it certainly wasn’t good.

“Mr Holmes?” she whispered. He whimpered at the sound, but did not reply.

“Mycroft?” Greg tried, moving around to crouch beside him. He wanted to reach out, to sooth the furrowed brow, but he worried that touch would make it worse. His hand curled into a fist instead, and he squeezed, hoping some of his frustration would ease.

It did not.

Mycroft’s breathing was irregular, Greg could see; shallow breaths, sometimes with long pauses in between. A single tear track ran down the one cheek Greg could see, glistening in the dim light. Christ, he must be in agony, Greg thought in a panic.

“Breathe,” Greg urged him quietly. “Breathe, Mycroft.”

Another whimper.

“He’s not responding,” Greg said, knowing he looked worried. He _was_ worried. This was as uncontrolled as he’d ever seen Mycroft, and honestly, it frightened him. The amount of pain this man would have to be in to whimper, to fold himself down on his desk and ignore Greg’s presence…

“See if he’ll take these,” Anthea said, handing Greg some tablets and a glass of water.

Greg murmured to Mycroft, trying to press the tablets into his hand, but the long fingers curled in on themselves. The whimper turned into a pained groan, and Greg pulled his hand back as though burned. He tried nudging Mycroft’s mouth with the straw, hoping the oral stimulus would help him understand what was happening.

“He won’t open his mouth,” Greg said, pushing down the fight or flight urge that was screaming _do something, do SOMETHING_. Anthea looked worried, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she accepted the tablets back from Greg.

“Gregory…” the whisper was barely audible, almost lost in Anthea’s words as they piled over the top.

“I’ve never seen him this bad,” she said, the worry leaching into her voice.

“Did he say my name?” Greg asked, more focussed on Mycroft than Anthea.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” Anthea announced, authoritative even in a whisper.

“Right,” Greg said, a little relief tempering his anxiety. Ambulance meant professionals, people who knew what they were doing. He ignored the part where Anthea was so worried about her boss, dumping it on the ‘too big to worry about’ pile in his mind.

“Gregory…” the whisper was unmistakable, and Greg felt his breath hitch at the sound.

“Mycroft. Breathe,” he urged, hoping his voice wouldn’t crack. “Breathe,” he said again as Mycroft’s chest stopped moving, then stuttered into life again. Long slow breathing, Greg hoping Mycroft would follow, knowing he had no way of sensing it, desperately wanting to help. Units of time ceased to matter. Only Mycroft’s breathing marked the passing of time, occasional whimpers punctuating the silence.

Finally, the door opened again.

“They’re here,” Anthea whispered, and Greg stood, the sudden action of the scene drifting in and out as he felt the numbness of shock begin to slip over him. He watched a man lean over Mycroft, speaking quietly to him as he administered a syringe of something. Christ, he hoped they knew what they were doing…

“Private ambulance service,” Anthea murmured to him. “They are well versed in Mr. Holmes’ medical history.” Mycroft visibly slumped, presumably as the drugs eased his agony. Greg felt his own spine slacken in empathy.

As the gurney rolled close, Greg heard his own name once again on Mycroft’s lips, and his decision was made.

“I’m going with him.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft was drifting.

It was nice. Pleasant.

Warm.

A little scratchy, actually, but warm and generally…pleasant.

The words were simple but perfectly adequate.

His head was full of cotton wool, fluffy and undemanding. How nice that his body was playing along, making no demands on his mind to plot a course of action.

Mycroft was aware of his face, in the way that people are aware of the parts of their body that have been in pain but are no longer under such duress. His face was not tender, per se; he was just hyper aware of it, the shape of his nose, the feel of air moving in and out of his nostrils.

His eyes were warm. Warmer than the surrounding tissue, and perfectly round. He was very aware of their shape. When he moved them in their sockets – slowly, eyelids closed, there appeared to be no other option which was fine with him – they rolled without a single protuberance to catch on his orbital socket.

It was quite satisfying.

“G’morning, gorgeous.”

The voice was the first thing outside his body that Mycroft had registered. It was…deep. Vaguely familiar, but his brain protested at too much thought, so he allowed the mystery prevail for the time being. Instead he allowed impression flit across his consciousness as the voice continued to murmur.

Rough.

Warm.

Affectionate.

Worried.

They didn’t seem to be familiar words, and a single spark of curiosity made Mycroft attempt to open his eyes.

Not good.

The flare of brightness speared into his brain. Panic filled him as the hot spears ricocheted, piercing every part of his brain and inflaming his eyes.

Pain. Again.

“Gregory…”

The voice was still there, trying to soothe but with an edge of panic.

Mycroft fought the pain, the panic, tried to hold onto the voice, the only thing outside of himself he wanted to hold onto.

Cold. Again in his arm.

The wave once more, this time expected, welcomed as it dragged him under.

The only regret was leaving the voice behind.

“Gregory…”

+++

The second time Mycroft awoke, he was far more aware of himself. His mind was still tender, soft around the edges and slow, but functioning. He was aware of his whole face, and the sensation, along with his last memories, told him what he needed to know.

Migraine again.

Gregory – had Gregory been there, or had that been a dream?

Some kind of opiate or better had been administered.

Therefore (slow, careful examination of sensory input confirms deduction) – he was in hospital. Well, a private room in the most exclusive private hospital in London, most likely. Hardly A & E at St. Georges’, but still.

Had Gregory been here?

Mycroft struggled to move his mind as he desired. Trying to pin down a recent memory was almost impossible, but he had fleeting impression of a voice. Kind, soft, stressed.

Gregory’s voice.

Mycroft considered this idea. He would only have been allowed access to Mycroft here – and in his office, if that memory was also correct – with Anthea’s express permission. Clearly, the woman had taken her role in his health a step further than she ever had before.

He was endlessly grateful to her for it. Having banished Anthea for the afternoon, Mycroft would have laid in his office, possibly without the ability to summon help for hours. Only Gregory’s entrance had saved him that torture. Whether Gregory had come of his own accord (unlikely) or not, Anthea had admitted him, and for that he must be grateful.

Putting that issue aside for the moment, Mycroft considered opening his eyes. This was always the Litmus test for his migraines; premature opening often led to immediate and excruciating relapse. He had the vague impression he’d done that already, though, so there was a good chance he was ready to try once more.

Slowly, fluttering his lashes to mitigate the bright light a little, Mycroft raised his eyelids. He kept his head perfectly still, waiting to see what the result was.

Nothing.

A wave of relief flowed through him. He was free, for this time at least. He would be sensible, he would take several days to recover before returning to work. It was possible that Anthea would bar his entrance to his own office anyway, he thought wryly to himself.

As he opened his eyes a little further, Mycroft could see that the lighting in the room was minimal. It was a relief; he knew he would be photosensitive for several days. The rooms at this hospital were all similar, and the nurses’ station in the corner was as he expected. A young man sat there, filling in paperwork by the dim glow of a low wattage globe.

Mycroft tried to speak, wincing at the dull rasp of his dry throat. The nurse looked up and smiled, dropping his pen and hastening over to Mycroft.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes,” he murmured quietly. “Allow me.” He picked up a glass with a straw, bending it to meet Mycroft’s mouth. The liquid was cool but not cold; perfect for his parched throat.

“Thank you,” Mycroft whispered. A lowered voice was part of his overcautious approach in these days after a migraine. His voice would regain its usual volume and speed with time. For now, he spoke only when necessary. The familiar path to recovery was already starting to make itself known, a comforting realisation.

Mycroft lay still while the nurse checked his vital signs, nodding to himself before turning back to his patient.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. When Mycroft shook his head, the young man replied easily, “Just tea and toast, then.”

Experienced with recalcitrant eaters, Mycroft thought to himself.

“What day is it?” he asked. It was as disconcerting as ever to wake after a chemically induced sleep.

“Thursday, just after five a.m.,” the nurse replied.

“Thank you,” Mycroft replied automatically, winding his mind around the time difference.

Almost two days. Two days he’d been asleep. Vacantly, he watched the nurse return to his station, making notes and then a quick phone call.

“Your breakfast won’t be long,” the nurse told him, coming back over. “When you’ve eaten something we can get rid of your catheter and you can try standing up, if you like.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft replied, astonished at almost every word he had just heard.

The smile was sympathetic, the tone professional. It did not prevent Mycroft’s face burning with embarrassment.

“The paramedics gave you some pretty strong drugs. They can take effect for up to twelve hours, and generally relax all your muscles, including the ones that control your bladder. You’ve had a drip going since you were admitted, and there’s only one way all the excess fluid’s coming out. It’s easier to provide you with a catheter.”

“Easier for whom?” Mycroft grumbled.

“For you,” the nurse replied, “unless you’d prefer I gave you a sponge bath and changed your wet sheets?”

Mycroft stared for a second, then had to concede the point.

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been on your feet, too, so we’ll take that slowly. Unless you’d like to just skip the dramatic loss of consciousness and just have me lie you on the floor?”

The nurse grinned at him, then turned as the door opened and another nurse brought in the breakfast tray. Mycroft was glad for the disruption – the nurse was cheeky, bordering on insubordinate, even if he was obviously correct. The second nurse greeted him, raising the top of his bed and ensuring he could manage the tea pot. It was humiliating but necessary, Mycroft allowed, his hand shaking at even that small weight.

He was watching the nurses do their change over and contemplating the severity of this migraine when there was a knock at the door. Anthea came in, her face relieved to see Mycroft sitting up with a cup of tea in hand.

“Good morning, sir,” she greeted him.

“Anthea,” he replied, sipping at his tea. “Do sit down.”

“It’s good to see you awake,” she said. An unspoken _I told you so_ hung in the air, and Mycroft sighed. A little humility would go a long way, he told himself.

“I owe you an apology,” he said quietly. “While I did not appreciate your choice of partner, I must admit he was the ideal candidate. And had you not summoned him on…” he frowned, “when you did,” he amended, “I may have suffered far longer than I did. Due to my own lack of self-awareness.”

Anthea’s face was amused and astonished, he could see. It was not often that Mycroft Holmes apologised, and never – despite their disagreements – had it been directed at her.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Have you…been in touch with Gregory?” Mycroft asked her. His heart was in his mouth, though he tried to sound casual.

“He’ll be upset he wasn’t here when you woke up,” Anthea told him. “I sent him home last night. He hadn’t moved since you were admitted.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft said. _Gregory has been here._

“He rode in the ambulance, refused to leave the hospital until you were settled, and has been no further than the bathroom since you were brought to this room.” Anthea told him flatly.

“I see,” Mycroft said quietly. The idea whirled through his mind. _Gregory has stayed._

“If I might risk further insubordination,” Anthea said delicately.

“Oh, do,” Mycroft replied, his mouth twitching.

“Do you?” she asked him. “Do you really see?” When he gazed blankly at her, she let out a noise of frustration.

“You and he are head over heels for each other,” she said, enunciating every word. “That’s why I chose him. He’s been pining for you for almost as long as you’ve been pining for him. I have no idea why you chose to limit your association to one night, but,” she took a deep breath, “and this might get me fired, but you would be a fool to let him walk out of here without you. Sir.”

Mycroft gaped at her for a long, silent moment.

“Thank you,” he said finally. “That will be all for the moment.”

Jumping at the dismissal, Anthea followed the night shift nurse out, Blackberry already in hand before the door closed behind her.

Mycroft watched her leave, chewing absently on a piece of toast as he thought about her words. Impertinent, of course, and clear grounds for dismissal if he was so inclined.

As he thought about it, however, Mycroft found himself not at all inclined in that direction. If she was right – and she was right very, very often – he must act as soon as Gregory made his next visit. He would need a plan.

As though waiting for the decision, Gregory burst through the door, eyes locking immediately on Mycroft. As soon as he had registered that the man was sitting up with a cup of tea, his whole being relaxed. Mycroft was astonished to see how far his shoulders dropped, how open his face became. He stilled closing the door slowly, nodding to the nurse before walking quietly and carefully over to Mycroft.

“Good morning,” Mycroft greeted him.

“Hi,” Greg replied. He sat down, drawing the chair closer to the head of the bed. His hand reached out automatically, then withdrew. Mycroft could see Greg register what he’d done – reaching for the hand no longer lying still on the bed. Slowly, he transferred his toast to his other hand, stretching his own fingers out to take Gregory’s.

Dark brown eyes – the colour of excellent coffee, Mycroft thought absently – rose to meet his, relief and astonishment evident.

“I understand you were quite difficult to get rid of,” Mycroft said. Greg’s fingers were cold in his. It was lovely.

“Yeah,” Greg said, his voice gruff. “Y’had me pretty worried there for a while.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, the words a broken whisper. “I didn’t mean to…I mean, you didn’t have to…”

“Shhh,” Greg said, amusement gentle in his eyes. “Yeah, I did. I know you didn’t mean to. Who’d do that on purpose, Jesus.”

Mycroft nodded, the affectionate, still slightly worried look on Greg’s face captivating him. Nobody in his memory had ever looked at him like that. Like he mattered, like his pain had invoked pain in someone else – and that remarkable person had been far more concerned about his pain than their own.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. To his mortification tears rose in his eyes and he closed them, leaning back against his pillow as he tried to figure out what was happening to him. Since when had he been so emotional? Perhaps it was a side effect of the medication…

“Mycroft,” Greg said, “Anthea’s probably already told you this, but I’m willing to bet you’re gonna need to hear it a bit. I have been pretty hooked on you for a very long time. I never thought I’d get a chance with you, and to be honest I was pretty upset that we only had one night together. One incredible night, for the record. I came to your office that day to ask if we could give it another shot, perhaps a proper date this time. One that I’d like to think we could stretch out to quite a long time, if we worked at it.”

“Really?” Mycroft whispered, the childish question falling from his lips.

“All you have to say is ‘me, too’,” Greg said, kissing Mycroft’s knuckles where they lay against his own. “If all that’s true for you, for course.”

Mycroft swallowed. He could see Greg tilting his face away, hoping to hide how much this meant to him.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft breathed, “Me too.”

Greg turned back, a smile breaking over his tired features. “Well, I don’t think this counts as a date,” Greg told him. “Fancy though it is.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be ready to go out for a while,” Mycroft replied. “Suffice it to say, I will be taking things quite slowly for the next few days-”

“The next week-”

“-hear, hear-” chimed in the nurse, with an amused grin and a wink at Greg.

“Yes, thank you,” Mycroft grumbled. “My point, Gregory, is that perhaps we could consider dining at my home to be our second date.”

“Yeah, that could work,” Greg replied, smiling. “Low lights, food, dozing on the couch. All the things you’ll be into for a while.”

“I’m not sure that level of teasing is appropriate quite so soon in our relationship, Gregory,” Mycroft chided him. A thrill went through him at the word ‘relationship.’

“Hmm, really? Well I’ll trust you to let me know when it is appropriate,” Greg said.

“Certainly. It might be quite a long time,” Mycroft said, grinning as he shuffled over, allowing Greg to squeeze onto the narrow bed with him.

“I hope it is,” Greg replied.

They kissed for a long time, slow and gentle, before Greg pulled away, looking into Mycroft’s eyes.

“You know I’m gonna take good care of you, don’t you?” he asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft replied, his throat constricting at the honest sincerity in Greg’s voice. “I believe you will.”


End file.
